


The Purifier's Blade

by CosmicTurnabout



Category: Original Work
Genre: Body Horror, Dark Fantasy, Fantasy, Gen, Murder, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-03
Updated: 2018-11-03
Packaged: 2019-08-17 05:30:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,635
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16510265
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CosmicTurnabout/pseuds/CosmicTurnabout
Summary: The peaceful island of Alernia suffers a string of gruesome murders courtesy of a killer wielding strange magic. While a contagious fever boils across the mainland, several Alernians join together to investigate before the culprit cuts a bloody swath to their doorsteps.





	The Purifier's Blade

Dawn was breaking white and warm, and there was a dead woman in the cathedral plaza.

The woman was propped up against the side of the grand old cathedral, the bright light of morning lancing out from between the building's columns to stripe her legs. There was no one else in the plaza but a half-circle of people around the body, and in its center stood Adelard Larkin, leaning forward to inspect the face of the corpse. Her head had lolled back, mouth open, eyes holding the dread of her final moment. Blood drenched her blonde hair and crisp blue robe, leaving only shoes untouched. But her attire was not what held Adelard and the others' attention.

Her throat had been cut, nearly from ear to ear, and from the gash sprouted flowers in myriad colors, from blue to pink to yellow to a deeper red than the blood that coated her. Flowers shot from another stab wound to her stomach, arcing up before drooping over her waist. Her hands were arranged around the grim bouquet, almost as if in offering to the onlookers.

"We have a strange killer on our hands," murmured Willem Dyson, the imposing captain of the guard, as Adelard inspected the injuries. "One targeting Menders, and then planting flowers in their wounds after death. What's the point, I wonder?"

"There has been no planting here, Captain," Adelard said. He had shaggy brown hair and wore a purple robe with the sleeves rolled up, the better to inspect the body. He hoped the guards could not see his hands shaking; luckily, he could control his voice much better. "There is nothing holding the plants to the wounds themselves, as far as I can tell. No adhesive. You could not simply stuff flower stems into cuts without some kind of glue and expect them to stay rooted there." He reached out and pulled at the flowers growing from the stomach wound. All could see that they held fast. "No, they sprout from the gashes as if growing straight out of them. Besides—" and he sniffed delicately at the bouquet "—these flowers are not native to Alernia. Unless our culprit brought them from the mainland before the murder, which I find unlikely."

Dyson looked even more confused, if that were possible. "Then what the bloody hell is going on? Er, begging your pardon for the language, Counselor." Some of the younger cadets serving as Dyson's personal guard had gone pale in the face, and others were keeping their gaze averted from the corpse altogether. Most of them could not have been more than eighteen, Adelard realized. He supposed it made sense that everyone was a bit on edge. This was the first murder on Alernia in over six years.

"No need to apologize. This is quite the ghastly scenario; we're all worked up. I'm glad you called me."

Dyson nodded. The boy who had discovered the body had been out on an early morning errand for his mother. He had thought the corpse a beggar sleeping slumped against the cathedral. Upon realizing she was dead, he'd run back home, and his mother had alerted the island guard. Within an hour, the captain and a handful of guardsmen were assembled in the plaza. Captain Dyson had sent several high-ranking officers to search for any sign of the culprit, and from there he had called Counselor Larkin down from his room in the Spire. He was the best at this kind of thing, or so the gossip ran.

"You solved the murder a few years back," said Dyson, his teeth gleaming against his dark skin in the morning light. "Of course we'd ask for your help."

Adelard huffed and tried to look pleased. He'd have preferred never having needed to solve anything in the first place.

"Ah, do we know who the young woman is? Besides her status as a Mender. That's easy to tell from the cloak."

"We know as much as you do," said Dyson, shrugging.

"And who'd want to 'urt a Mender, anyway?" one of the cadets cut in. He was wiry and blonde, and leaned heavily on his lance. "Plenty of us on Alernia and the mainland've got someone what owes their life to a Mender." The guards made sounds of agreement at that, nodding among themselves. "They're practically revered 'round here."

"People opposed to old magic are more plentiful than you might think, and some have been driven to kill because of it," said Adelard with an unconscious finger wag. "But I don't think the culprit despised magic. This right here is magic itself." And he pointed at the flowering wounds. "I can think of no other word for it."

A low murmur of surprise went through the cadets. From over their shoulders, Adelard could see a few curious early-risers approaching. Probably fruit vendors who had come to set up their stalls for the morning rush. There would be a crowd soon.

Dyson noted the coming onlookers with a frown, though Adelard suspected that most of his displeasure arose from what he'd just said. "Magic? Are you saying the culprit used magic to kill, or magic to, erm...plant the flowers?"

"Definitely the latter. One does not need magic to cause wounds like these."

"Well, what's the point of killing and then using magic to decorate the body with a bouquet? The only magic I'm familiar with is that what the Menders use. And it can't harm folk or create flowers from thin air, far as I know."

"It's true, Menders' magic is, ah, the most prevalent and familiar sort for most of us. Very rarely is it destructive. One hears of magic being used to perform minor feats of wonder, but nothing like this. No, I think these magic flowers, for want of a better description, are a spectacle left by our killer."

"Like they did this for fun?"

Adelard grimaced. "Precisely."

"Unknown take me." Dyson rubbed at his beard. "Fever starts ravagin' the mainland, and now this new madness rears its ugly head. Portends badly, this does."

"I agree. We will just have to wait and see if your guards capture the person responsible, or at least find something that can lead us to them." _Maker, please. Please let this be the only victim._

Dyson was looking at the body again, gold bracelets on his wrist clinking together as he held his chin in thought. Adelard knew that island guards were forbidden personal jewelry, but it seemed certain luxuries came with being a captain.

"I assume the neck wound came last. Why stab someone in the stomach after slitting their throat?

"Right. The stab to the stomach came first, perhaps out of anger or to incapacitate, but Menders can easily tend to such wounds. Our killer must have known this. The cut to the neck was to ensure death. And you can see that the culprit did not steal any of her jewelry--her earrings are still there, at any rate--so material gain was no motive. The goal was simply to take her life."

"But to what end?"

"That is the question, isn't it?" It was just as the young cadet had wondered before. Why would anyone want to kill a Mender? On Alernia and the mainland alike, ladies of the blue were almost universally respected. You came across folk here and there that were suspicious of their abilities, but outright hostility toward Menders was nigh unheard of, and no Mender had ever been killed on Alernia.

Adelard was pondering this when a high, shrill voice cried out from nearby. "Is that her?" Then gasping pants. "Is that her?"

An older woman, hair flecked with gray, was crossing the plaza at a fast clip from near the empty merchant stalls, slippers whispering against the flagstones. When she was close enough to the island guard to see past them, she fell to her knees. Adelard tensed.

"Oh, Anya! Anya...Anya..." She sobbed the name until it became a long, low wail. " _Anyaaaaaaa_ …" The gathering crowd shifted uneasily around her, not wanting to get too close, like grief was catching. In a way, Adelard could not blame them.

Dyson regarded the woman over the heads of his cadets. There was no need to ask who she was. "I'm...I'm sorry, ma'am." He sounded awkward, and looked to the side like he did not know what else to say.

Adelard, a bit more prepared for this, walked past the guards to the kneeling woman, her hands covering her eyes. He crouched down and reached for her shoulder. "I understand that seeing people swarming around your daughter's body is difficult. I am Counselor Larkin, in charge of the inquiry into her death. Know that we are in the process of doing what we can to catch the culprit." He was surprised at how steady his voice sounded.

Almost rotely she nodded, her wails growing louder. A trio of Menders who had joined the curious crowd approached, blue hoods obscuring most of their faces. Adelard stood up. As the de facto head of the investigation, he had felt obligated to talk to the woman, but now he sensed how little he could truly do for her.

 _I am a teacher. I do what I can with what I have._ But the thought did not cheer him.

"May we return to the body? I promise you can give Anya a proper burial when we have collected everything we need from the scene."

"Great Unknown, why?" The woman uncovered her face and stared straight up at Adelard. It was as if she had not heard him. Her eyes were wide and wet, shimmering. "I heard from my little neighbor this morning, Petrus. About a girl who looked just like her, dead! Dead in the plaza! Why her? Why my Anya? Oh, it's not fair. It's not fair. It's not fair, Counselor."

"I know," said Adelard, almost to himself. He could feel that terrible welling in the throat that signaled the coming of tears. He swallowed, held it back with some difficulty. "I am sorry." His apology sounded infinitely small and powerless, but he had to say something.

He had hoped he would never have to do this again. Even now, years later, he could still hear the cries of the man who'd found his son dead outside the tavern near Moonshard Beach, broken bottle in his hand. The young man had been killed by a stab to the stomach, blood pooling beneath him in the dirt. Seeping into his clothes, rolling out of his mouth. The father howling like an animal at the black sky, winking pinpricks of stars burning down. He'd shaken the boy, over and over, never stopping, even after he'd grown cold. Adelard had been at the tavern that night, by chance. He'd joined in the search, and with his guidance they'd found the man responsible. But he'd taken no real pleasure in it, in the end.

 _Would that I could have prevented the tragedy altogether_ , he thought, watching as the woman was led away by the Menders speaking words of comfort. Some Menders with weaker magic specialized in hurts of the mind, which could not be so easily cured. Adelard suspected the trio were one such group. _All for the better. Words can only do so much. But they can be a balm, and there are plenty better with them than me._

Adelard returned to the ring of guards, where he found Dyson speaking with the officer in charge of the search group. _Please. Please tell me they found something._ He could still hear Anya's mother wailing from the other end of the plaza, across from the cathedral near the vendors' stalls.

"...not a trace," the officer was saying. "No pieces of clothing, no blood save for the scene of the killing, no footprints. Not many people around near their homes to question either, as it's not long past sunrise."

"Dammit." Dyson spat. "Nothing at all left behind? Dammit!"

The officer flinched at the words. He was burly, broadly built, and sported shoulder-length auburn hair. His armor, boots, and lance were polished to a sheen, and there was a symbol pressed into his breastplate that Adelard recognized at a glance. It was the sigil of the Farrians —a fish leaping over the moon—one of the few noble families on Alernia. It was somewhat strange to see a noble's son in the island guard, but not unheard of.

"Farrian," said Dyson quietly when he'd finally gathered himself. "Spend the rest of the day questioning as many people as you can. Do your best not to alarm folks overmuch. I know that's going to be hard what with the crowd and all, but at least try. Report back to me at officer's quarters tonight."

"Captain," said Farrian, then turned and bowed his head to Adelard. "Counselor." He clicked his heels together, rapped his lance on the ground, and headed off into the plaza with his small group of guards.

"Rydel Farrian," said Dyson, watching the officer depart. "Young, but capable. Joined the island guard on his older brother's urging. Family's the largest rum brewer on Alernia, maybe even larger than whatever they've got on the mainland. Anyway, shouldn't have lost my temper with him. This is just s'damn vexing. S'pose it's frustration that comes with old age."

"Ah, you're only a handful of years older than me. Don't make me feel ancient, now."

Dyson laughed uproariously, clapping Adelard on the shoulder. "You? Ancient? Right, tell that to your swooning students."

"Thirty-three is ancient when you are twenty, clever, and think you've got the world on a string. It feels an eternity away." Adelard pointedly ignored the teasing about his looks, but he appreciated the levity, especially with what now faced them.

"Thank you for reaching out to the mother, by the way," said Dyson, his expression turning somber. "I'm not much for words."

"Neither am I, truly, and I lecture near every day. I was glad for the Menders. They will take care of her, and then perhaps I may visit and see what I can learn of our victim."

At this point, the half-circle of cadets had largely given up on keeping the crowd of onlookers back. Adelard and Dyson found themselves in a small oasis of space near the body. People whispered urgently to each other and pushed to get closer as the morning sun lit up the plaza and surrounding buildings.

 _The press of so many people will keep birds from the body, at least,_ Adelard thought grimly.

"There's nothing for it," he sighed. "Your man found no evidence around the plaza, and we found no immediate evidence pointing to a killer on the body. Just make sure people do not disturb this scene. They may look, but they may not touch."

"We will remain vigilant until you return. What are your plans, Counselor Larkin?"

Adelard paused. There was so much to consider, from the manner of death to where the body had been found. There could be a clue to the who or why in any one of the mundane details he'd noted. Why had the killing happened at night? Why had a Mender been targeted? His thoughts drifted to Anya's wounds and their flower garlands. A wailing mother and a heartbroken father, lives broken by bloody shadows for no discernible reason. Something tickled at him then — a myth, a legend? Old stories buried in the dusty corners of buildings and minds, waiting to be rediscovered and read with new purpose.

Well, that was his forte, was it not?

"I think I will do some research. Until next we meet, Captain."

Adelard turned from Dyson with a wave, and began walking in the direction of the Alernian archives.


End file.
